Painting Chef - Cheaper Than Therapy

Eggs in the half dozen box at the grocery store hold a special place in my heart. That little box is just so precious and wee, kind of like a kitten. But… you know… more like an unfertilized chicken fetus. Whatever.

There are so many things you can do with a half dozen eggs. The first, and most obvious for me, is cake. I so love cake. I handed out an old family recipe for Strawberry Cake to a couple of friends on Facebook yesterday and it has me craving a decadent three-layer, perfectly pink Strawberry Cake with cream cheese frosting. Probably I’ll make one of those in the near future.

Or maybe a delicious batch of scrambled eggs with lots of cheese is your thing. I do love a good plate of scrambled eggs. I load them with cheese and pepper and pile them up on toast. Mmmm… why do I not make more scrambled eggs?

What about homemade pasta? That takes eggs! I’ve ventured into that arena a few times. Mostly with ravioli because if I’m going to make homemade past, I figure I may as well go whole hog and stuff it with cheese and garlic. EVERYTHING is better stuffed with cheese and garlic. No?

I do have a still unused and in the packaging frittata pan that I could probably dig out and give a test drive. Although a frittata is basically a quiche without the crust and the crust is the best part of the quiche… don’t you think? I’m quite adept at omelets and only send one crashing to the floor about every third or fourth go-round. Surely that would take up six eggs….?

Easter eggs! I could make out of season Easter eggs, couldn’t I? I don’t know if you know this or not but I was raised by a VERY crafty mother. I was the queen of the seasonally appropriate t-shirt or sweat-shirt with matching hair bow. But I have a very clear recollection of standing over the sink and blowing the innards out of eggs one Easter because she wanted the eggs to “last longer” and not get smelly. So we died hollow eggs shells with little pin holes in each end. And broke every single one of those fragile little bastards within a matter of hours.

I suppose I could also whip up a batch of egg salad although the thought of egg salad has always kind of made me dry heave.

Without fail, eggs have always made me gravitate towards baked goods. Cake. Cookies. Brownies. And if I pick a recipe that ends up not having eggs and I don’t get to experience that satisfying THWACK, I feel cheated.

So it seems appropriate, I suppose, that my potentially Un-Punk-Ass Ovaries have found it within themselves (and gently and lovingly prodded along by LOADS of Repronex injections) to create SIX beautiful and perfect eggs.

Six eggs that have grown and appeared exactly when they are supposed to and are just cooperating beautifully.

Six eggs that caused my Dr. Wonderful to do a little happy dance in the exam room.

Six eggs that have me, once again, clinging ferociously to the possibility that my Busted Uterus and Punk Ass Ovaries may just figure this shit out after all.

I should re-title this “In Praise of the Six Pack”. Okay… if you want the Strawberry Cake recipe, tell me in the comments and I’ll email it to you!

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw that second pink line. I shook and sling that stupid home pregnancy test around like it was a fly swatter. And when I was positive that second line wasn’t going anywhere (like… where, exactly? Sticking to my bathroom wall as I flung it about?) I ran into the bedroom and despite the early hour jumped on the bed, woke Patrick up and screamed “IT’S POSITIVE! IT’S POSITIVE!” Then I burrowed back under the covers and snuggled up for a few more minutes of precious sleep while this was still our little secret.

A few hours later, groggily, I woke up trying to remember if it was real. What had happened. Something didn’t feel quite right. So I climbed out of bed and went back to the bathroom just to check. I looked on the bathroom counter where I was sure I’d left that test. Nothing there. I checked in the trash can, I checked under the covers, I checked both nightstands. Nothing. Was it possible it was just one of those weird half awake and half asleep dreams?

With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I realized I was going to have to take another test. It was the only way to know. And as I watched that one little pink line just hang out all by its lonesome, I knew. It had all been in my head. Even though I could still feel the scruff of his goatee as he pressed his groggy face to mine. I could still sense the warmth under the covers as we huddled under the covers and whispered excitedly about what was next. I could still feel the cold floor briefly under my feet that were barely touching the ground.

It’s amazing. The mind can make the body be so certain and feel so many things. I spent an entire two weeks with stomach cramps and nausea. Headaches. Heartburn. Sore boobs. Bone-crushing fatigue. I was so certain. Then Saturday morning I had my dream. And when I woke up, once my frantic search had determined it was all a dream, I noticed that those symptoms were gone. Along with my hope for this cycle. Everything just… evaporated.

It seems that at the end of the year, you can’t go anywhere on the internets without being smacked with some sort of “Year in Retrospect” post or “Best of 2009” list. And I suppose that’s only natural. The end of the year does lend itself to some degree of naval-gazing and what better place to get it all off your chest than right here. I mean, that’s why we write, isn’t it? We feel like we have something valid to say and at some point, some person without realizing the damage they were causing to our future and to the poor souls who would eventually become our “audience” encouraged us with a little giggle at a wisecracking essay or even an unfortunate “you’re a REALLY good writer” and then shit all rolled downhill…

But I’m probably getting ahead of myself.

I checked this morning. My naval contained nothing but lint and overall, 2009 SUCKED donkey balls and I have no desire to recap the year that was broadcast on this all busted uterus all the time with a side of dead grandmother channel. I cried. We all cried. 2009 was the year of the cry. To borrow a turn of phrase from the formerly loved (but now I kind of think he’s a douche) Fresh Prince, my life got flip turned upside down.

Also? I went totally fangirl crush crazy for a movie star. And I am distinctly too old for this shit so I will say no more about that and Chris Pine and roles he’s played in a VERY dirty dream or two. Except to say that I ASSURE you I am incapable of bending like that…

So maybe forward is the way to look? I have to look in SOME direction, don’t I? Otherwise I’ll fall down and bust my ass and let’s be honest, I require NO HELP in that department.

I guess the most obvious place to start is with the whole uterus fiasco. (I KNOW. Sometimes I feel like I should pay the internet my co-pay with the details you know about my lady bits. I’m sorry. It could be worse… probably…somehow…) It will soon be January. And the baby psychic (yes, you read that correctly… KEEP UP!) told me that January was the month I would find out I was pregnant. I’m not putting a whole lot of faith in that but it’s out there.

This most recent cycle (of which we are currently in the wait and see stage) has the potential to result in many, many babies and I won’t lie… I’m a little freaked. I had four eggs. FOUR. That’s a third of the way to a dozen. That’s reality show territory. But we’ll deal with that as it happens. Details (if they develop) to come. I promise.

You may have noticed that there was no mad frenzy of Christmas baking. Some of you may have noticed an absence of poorly packaged cookies in your mailbox. I thought about making them. I TRIED to get excited about making them. And then I would just cry. And miss my grandmother. So I just… took a year off. But they WILL be back next year, I promise!!

Fine. Despite my protests I guess this is a little retrospective. What can I say? It was a really strange year. But I survived it and even learned a few things so it wasn’t a total loss. Now if you’ll excuse me… I’ve got to stop typing because Patrick and I got a Wii for Christmas (shut up… MY last video game system was an Atari) and my swordfighting/wakeboarding/boxing injury is KILLING ME.

As you may have gathered, by both your incredibly high intelligence level as well as the lack of “I’M KNOCKED UP!!!!!” announcements on this website… “The Plan” has not yet succeeded.

The original timetable of “The Plan” was the end of this year. Well, my dear friends, as you may have noticed… the end of this particular year is fast approaching. But over the past few months, that timetable has become a bit more fuzzy in my mind. I have just started another cycle and this one will stretch into the new year. For many reasons, I hope and yes, perhaps even my own brand of pray, that this is the one.

I’ve had more than one person ask me how I could keep doing this. Can my body handle it? Is it healthy? Why don’t we just adopt? I don’t really have any good answers for that. I assume that my body can handle it as my doctor is allowing it and I have complete trust and confidence in her.

As for the emotional aspects of (in)fertility… I can’t explain it. This should probably be harder. It should probably take more of a toll while I am actually having shots every day and spending every third morning at the doctor and trying so hard to become a mother.

But I think I have become oddly detached from the process. It has become a book of instructions. Steps A, B and C. And as long as I don’t stop to think about what I’m doing, what we’ve been through and what lies ahead, I’m fine. I think about today. I think about this shot. This appointment. This ultrasound. And as I cross THIS day off on my calendar, it is one day down. One day that I have conquered. One more day that I have spent sore and exhausted from the various chemicals that pump through my body and hopefully one day closer to becoming a mother.

Why DON’T we adopt? Because I’m not there anymore. I was there seven months ago. Today I am not. I have devoted myself to this quest for pregnancy 100% and for me, as long as adoption is even in the picture as an option, I am not focused on the task at hand. I feel so strongly that this little person, this amazing little baby that is part me and part Patrick is out there, getting ready. And I’m dying to meet that person. Maybe more out of morbid curiosity at the hellion our combined genetics could produce than anything else…

But as we go on, there are roadblocks up ahead. The largest and most looming is the financial one. While we haven’t yet made the jump to IVF, this process is not cheap and we don’t have the savings to support many more months of my fertility drug habit. Insurance doesn’t cover any of this so we are just paying as we go.

And at some point, Patrick is going to grow very weary of my dropping trou in the kitchen every night so he can give me a shot. He’s an engineer… medical school was never on the radar and I imagine he’s done more doctoring than he ever planned. (Although this can’t be blamed entirely on infertility as I also do nothing but point and shriek when I cut myself shaving. Or get a splinter. Or a blister.)

But the point is… I’m not sure how much longer this is going to go on. Only that it IS going on and that I’m good with that. Because for all my bitching and whining and moaning, it isn’t THAT difficult. You just put one foot in front of the other, remember to breathe and NEVER, EVER involuntarily tighten your butt muscles right before a shot.

Through no desire of my own, Patrick and I ended up taking a “month off” from our seemingly never-ending quest to de-barren my uterus when we went on our vacation. At the time, I thought it would be no big deal. Of course I had to deal with the barrage of “Oh THAT’S when you’ll get pregnant, as soon as you stop trying” and “All you need is a break and to relax… that’s when it will happen” and I wanted to stab everyone who said such things to me IN THE THROAT WITH A RUSTY BUTTER KNIFE.

But I digress… (do I?)

We took the break. And it KILLED ME. I had this ambiguous cloud of ick and yuck and sad floating all around me. And I was never so thrilled to go back to the doctor as the day I walked in there, barely alive because of the flu that while no longer contagious, still made me not feel like doing anything other than rolling over in bed.

I attacked this cycle with renewed determination and motivation. I dutifully mixed up vials of liquids and powders every night so that Patrick could give me a shot in my ass. I checked the days off on the calendar. I felt like four day old ass and, aside from a few hours this past Saturday, kept that whining and complaining to a minimum. I dropped $200 in co-pays alone in the past week for ultrasounds.

And what started out as a promising cycle has kind of… flatlined. Nothing is being called a bust or non-responsive yet. I still have a turkey baster session scheduled for later this week. (On Thanksgiving, appropriately enough). As if I needed something else to worry about on the day I was having 20 people at my house for dinner…

But I feel the hopefulness slipping away. I can’t put my finger on it because like I said, my RE has been nothing but positive about this cycle so far. “Sure.” She says. “You’re responding a little slow but I don’t think that’s cause for concern.” But I can’t help but wonder if, when I leave, they all give each other the sad look that says “Who does she think she is kidding? Why is she putting herself through this?”

There are two things that have carried me through this on-again, off-again struggle to become a mother. The first is my sense of humor. And there are no secrets. I’ve read the very little I’ve had to say here over the past few months. I know it. NOBODY is laughing anymore. But the second is my optimism. And I’m so scared that if I lose that too, I’ll just become one of those ghosts of a person. I’ll float around, only halfway here with that sad look on my face that never quite seems to leave.

On the bright side… I’m not drinking right now because of the fertility drugs. So those 20 people at my house on Thanksgiving? I’ll be STONE COLD SOBER.

Oh look… that did it… that pushed me over the edge. Send cake.